


Lilies Growing in my Shoes

by zbeewritingz



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Crimes & Criminals, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gambling, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trust, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-13 05:31:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18934453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zbeewritingz/pseuds/zbeewritingz
Summary: The war affected everyone, with nightmares of blood and screaming and echoing machine guns. The sounds of battle beat against the minds of everyone in Small Heath, even those who never saw the other end of a barrel. Logan Porter has been remembering gunshots long before war touched England's shores.





	1. A Bloody End

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing for years, but finally decided to publish something. Peaky Blinders is one of my new favorite shows. I just had this idea while I was watching. It will take place mostly before the show. I already have a plan for how this story will go, but if you guys have any ideas, please let me know! I am also publishing this on FanFiction.net under the same name, if you're interested. I hope to update once a week, every Friday. I'm currently publishing this on Thursday, so you lucky viewers will get Chapter 2 tomorrow, but after that there will be a week between each chapter. Sorry for the long notes! I won't do this often. Please enjoy and review!

She's always thought there were two ways to die, slowly and quickly. It's an odd thought, perhaps, for a nine-year-old to have, but an honest thought all the same. Logan has always prided herself on her honesty, but as she watches her father writhe in his favorite arm chair, his jaw missing and blood bubbling from the wound of a misplaced bullet, she wonders if she has been lying to herself. Maybe there is only one way to die, and that's slowly. Because she knows he's been dying for months now, spiraling into a cycle of drinking and holding his only gun to his head. Sometimes he would hold the gun to her head too, with empty eyes only seeing her long nose and thin lips, her red hair so similar to her mother's. The metal would be cold, heavy against her temple, and she'd stand there wondering  _Will I die slowly? Or quickly?_

He pulled the trigger this time, and Logan stands there with red freckles dripping down her cheeks and clear tracks through the mud beneath her eyes. Eyes that shine like sea glass, wavering and unblinking at the sight of her father, her stupid father who missed. All she can think is how he didn't even have the decency to die quickly, only the cruelty to miss the shot and quake through the flood of sticky red. Choking and shaking, in so much pain, but all Logan really sees that night is the peace in his gaze. No regret, just peace. And that's when her perspective on dying changes.

 _We all die slowly. We're dying slowly right now_. As she steps forward, slipping the weapon from his unsteady fingers, she thinks about her mother. Logan wraps her small fingers around his palm, and remembers how her mother shriveled. How it took a year for her to die. Her cheeks had hallowed and her hair lost its shine, stringy and limp. Her breathing always sounded so painful, her heart never beat right. Logan thinks about when she held her mother's hand, bony and weak compared to the shaking, sweaty grip of her father's hand now, and she hears the echo of her mother's last breath. Logan hums her father's favorite song, a song her mother used to sing before her tongue swelled and her voice faded to dust.

Grayson's eyes shine as he listens to his daughter hum, small and broken and beautiful. It's Elizabeth's song, and he wants to weep. He wishes he could feel her hand in his, that his body hadn't gone numb. Not yet. But he sees the acceptance, the forgiveness in his little Logan's sea glass eyes, like his own. They shimmer with her tears; tears he knows she doesn't notice. She's always been a silent crier, always so quiet. He closes his eyes, knows this is the end he wanted, needed, and that he was never a good father. Grayson fades away to his dead wife's melody hummed through his daughter's shaking breaths, and he knows he's going to hell for abandoning this life. He wishes he still had a jaw to smile.

Logan knows he's gone when his eyes close, when his hand stops shaking. But the red still flows, down and down. It's staining his shirt, dripping onto his favorite chair. She thinks about how he doesn't need that chair anymore. The chair where she learned to read, where her mother would sing to her, and her father would smoke his cigarettes. Logan jumps when she feels something splash on her hand, looks down in confusion at the small, clear, salty puddle in the hallow between her thumb and forefinger. She's done it again. Why does she never notice her own tears?

Letting his hand fall, a heavy thud that echoes in the otherwise silent room, Logan takes a step back. And another. And another, until she's pressed against the opposite wall. Her hands are shaking, her whole body is shaking, and she knows what's coming. She can still hear the gunshot, loud and ripping through her mind, unwelcome. She covers her ears to block the sound, it doesn't work. Her fingers dig into her scalp, and she tries to breathe. Logan tries to take a breath but it's like there's something lodged in her throat. She gasps, sucking air in and in and in and never letting it out. And then she's screaming, a sound so agonizing she doesn't recognize it as her own. She's detached, looking down at herself. A little girl, lost, alone, and screaming, huddled in the corner for some kind of protection, of comfort.

She remembers what her mother used to tell her.

 _"_ _Five for touch, four for sight, three for sound, two for smell, and one for taste," she would whisper, calm and soft in Logan's ear._ One, the ground, solid and hard beneath her heels. Two, the peeling paint on the walls, poking into the skin stretched over her shoulder blades. Three, her nightie, scratchy against her calves and collarbone. Four, her hair between her fingers, soft and tangled. Five, the blood drying on her cheeks, making her skin itch. She stopped screaming, breathing deeply.  _In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth._  Opening her eyes was a struggle, but immediately her gaze latches onto her knees, refusing to look up. One, the flower pattern sewn into her nightie, little bundles of daisies. Two, her socks, knitted by her mother. There's a hole in the right toe. Three, the candles flickering in the room, shadows dancing across the walls. Four, her father's teeth scattered across the ground, his blood spattered along the picture frames.

One, the creek of the floorboards as she stands up. Two, the vibration in the hallow center of her violin, now clutched to her chest, a small comfort. The only photo of her family, small and crinkled, rests between the strings. Three, the door slamming behind her as she steps outside. She wonders if the neighbors heard the gunshot. How much time has passed? It feels like an eternity, maybe she'll wither away. Old Mrs. Higgins from down the road will find her bones scattered on the stoop when she comes to deliver some fresh eggs for the broken family, her father decaying in his favorite chair. One, it rained that morning, the smell clinging to the gravel. Two, the smoke from her father's cigarettes that stains her clothes, suffocating. Logan sits on the lowest step, hugging her legs close to her chest and resting her chin on her knees. It's cold. She shivers, clouds of her breath puffing between her lips.

One, the saltiness of her tears on her chapped lips. Why haven't they stopped?


	2. Not a Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to change the title of this piece because I thought that it fit better with future aspects of the story. I figured it was still early enough that I could make changes like that. I hope you all enjoy!

Logan Porter, only daughter to Grayson and Elizabeth Porter, becomes an orphan the winter of 1903 following her ninth birthday. She's found hypothermic on her front step, blue in the lips and blank in her eyes. She doesn't move, not when Mrs. Higgins scampers around her in worry, not with the following scream when her father's body is found. Logan stays still, huddled and statuesque, when the coppers arrive. Her violin shakes in her grasp, it's left imprints on her arms from how long she's been holding it.

"She's unresponsive," a young officer with large bushy eyebrows and an equally bushy upper lip says as he wraps his coat around her. Logan swims in the material; she only blinks at the added weight, hardly notices the warmth. She thinks how horrified her mother would be at her lack of manners.

Logan can't bring herself to thank the officer.

Mrs. Higgins is sobbing in the arms of another officer, shaking and sniffing. Her gray hair is frazzled, snot running over the curve of her lips. They're telling her to go home, that they'll take it from here, but Logan knows she just wants the gossip. It's been Mrs. Higgins' prerogative for years, reporting on the poor broken little family down the road to the other holier-than-thou neighbors. Logan thinks about how this story might just be one for the papers, immortalized in the same ink she'd use to practice her alphabets. She doesn't know how she feels about that.

Logan then thinks about how all she can do is think. Her voice is gone, lodged somewhere in the recesses of her throat. She doesn't want to speak, doesn't have anything to say. She wonders if she'll ever have anything to say again. And she'll keep wondering, keep thinking because that is the only difference between her and the corpse rotting in the chair that she learned to read in.

The officer with the bushy eyebrows is speaking to her, telling her where she'll go. She can't bring herself to care, not until his arms are around her and she's being yanked from the only home she's ever known. Logan wriggles, she panics and the officer drops her. She stands on shaky legs, stares at the layers of brick she called home, and turns away. She walks on her own towards what she thinks is supposed to be a car. Logan has never seen a car before. Her father mentioned them a couple of times coming home from work. They're big and metal, cold-looking things. She's reminded of the gun once pressed to her temple, also cold and so metal. She doesn't want to be touched either.

Logan feels like she can catch her breath as her fingers dance across the aged wood of her violin. It was a rare gift, sometime between Christmas and her birthday. Her mother was such a talented musician, and she passed that trait of hers onto Logan, teaching her from the moment she could handle the weight of an instrument. They have…They had matching blisters on their fingers from the strings.

With her violin in her arms and a rucksack filled with what little clothing they could find for the small girl – so small, much too small for her age – Logan is taken to an orphanage in Small Heath. It's a dirty, busy town in Birmingham that clogs her throat with smoke and forces her to squint through the fog. She thinks about how different it is from her family's little stack of bricks and wood by the lake, how glad she is not to have that reminder. She thinks about how she doesn't have anything to say anymore, only thoughts.

The bushy lipped copper leads her to the front steps, large hand on her thin bony shoulder. She's still wearing his coat. She doesn't like how the sleeves drag along the ground by her ankles, doesn't like how it reminds her of wearing her father's shirts or her mother's dresses. Logan cranes her neck to see the decrepit building.  _The Carlisle House for Orphaned Boys? I don't understand_. On the sign, the word "boys" looks different than the rest, newer. It's taller than any building she's ever seen before, thin and rickety with slanted windows. She wonders if it's really leaning a bit to the left or if it's just her imagination.

Everything is gray, from the gravel roads to each and every building. Even the people, gray and bland, like those silent moving pictures Mrs. Higgins would gush about over tea. Somehow, Logan imagines that the blacks and grays in those pictures would be sharper, not quite so muddied. The sky weeps, cloudy and just as gray as the rest of the town. Logan is glad she doesn't have to compete with the chaos of colors, she can be just a gray as the rest.

The streets aren't quite crowded yet, it's still early morning. There are enough people meandering around that Logan can safely assume she isn't being left in an abandoned town. She wonders if that would be better, to be truly alone. Many people slow down to get a glimpse of the new little orphan joining their ranks. Another mouth to feed. Another child to pity. Some stare quite openly, Logan thinks it might be because of her hair, long and red. It's the only color in this gray street in Small Heath.

The bushy lipped copper – did he ever say his name? – is speaking with Mr. Carlisle, the warden for the orphanage. Something about "not speaking – cringes at being touched". Apparently, it's easier to keep her here, cheaper since the nearest girl's home is in London. The home used to be for all orphaned children, until Mr. Carlisle's wife died of infection. She doesn't particularly care where she is, only that she knows she can never be where she wants to be. Logan tunes out after hearing the word "traumatized" because she doesn't like the way it furrows Mrs. Carlisle's unibrow and brings a sneer to his stiff, wide nostrils. He's a burly man, intimidating with his muscular arms and large belly. He's short though, almost laughably so. Logan notices the eyes of the other orphans peeking through the stains on the windows.  _W_ _hy am I here? With these boys and this too big coat._  Her only answer is the echo of a gunshot in her ears and the last exhale of a dying woman. Her shoulders feel heavy.

Logan looks away from the hallowed eyes staring back at her from the windows.

Down the street a little way is a family, bigger than Logan ever imagined her own family could be. Four children, or rather two children and two young men. Logan doubts the tall lad with the confident curl to his smile and the lean icy-eyed boy would appreciate being called children. Three brothers and a little sister. The young ones seem around Logan's own age, give or take a year. What would it be like, she wonders, to have a brother or sister? Surely, they never get lonely. They are followed by a large, unfriendly looking man with eyes hidden behind the shadows of his flat peaky hat and sharp knuckles. The older boys are wearing matching caps. There are two women as well, with similar dark curly hair and conspiratorial smiles; they must be sisters, though one of them has the same eyes as who Logan assumes must be her children. Logan thinks they seem kind, maybe her mother would have gotten along with them.

The little ones are giggling, jumping around their older siblings, trying to get their attention. Logan wonders how long that innocence will last.  _Not as long as it should._  She realizes she's staring. Her gaze moves to her sock covered feet, her right toe peeking through the hole. She usually layers her socks in the winter; they couldn't ever afford proper boots.  _One day, I'll buy you a nice pair of boots. What do you think, sweetie?_  Logan left her other pairs of socks back at the house.

"Come along, now," Mr. Carlisle grunts from behind her, his meaty hand closing around her thin bicep. Logan flinches, whimpering as she tries to get his hand off her arm. She doesn't want to be touched. He rolls his beady, watery eyes and instead gestures towards the chipped front door of her new home. Her nose scrunches at the thought.

It's as she turns around to give the copper his coat back, chills running down her arms at the biting cold, that she realizes someone is watching her. Looking up just before the door slams shut, sea glass green meets icy blue. It's a nice color, she thinks, not overwhelming. Not grey.

Logan is led down a dark hall, nothing on the walls but peeling white paint and questionable stains. The lights flicker, and Mr. Carlisle sighs in front of her in irritation. Many of the boys in the house stare through the cracks in their doors, following her down the hall. Logan feels like she's being led to her execution. Maybe she is, maybe she'll die in this grey town with these grey people with nothing but grey memories.

She thinks about icy blue eyes and almost smiles.

There's a boy, older than her. Maybe the oldest one here. He's tall, or he just seems tall standing next to Mr. Carlisle. The sleeves of his sweater are rolled up to his elbows. Dirt and grime stain his hands. There's a smudge on his cheek. It dimples when he smiles down at her.  _He has a kind smile_  she thinks as she stops beside Mr. Carlisle.

"Watney," Mr. Carlisle heaves, it must be the way his neck fat settles over his throat. Even talking seems like a struggle. "Get the little lassie to her room, top floor, down at the end. She gets her own room." And he waddles back down the hall, leaving her with 'Watney' and his kind smile. "Her name is Logan Porter! Not much of a talker, that one!" It's hollered from around the corner as an afterthought.

The boy jerks his head at her, silently telling her to follow. He has yellow hair. She's never seen yellow hair before. It's long for a boy and mostly tied out of his face. He has brown eyes. Logan wonders why they don't seem as kind as his smile. She follows him.

"This place isn't so bad, once you get used to it. Oh, and my name is Amos, Amos Watney," he says, adding a dry chuckle. He has an odd lilt to his voice, like none Logan has heard before. The letter "s" doesn't flow through his teeth quite properly. "Don't worry, you'll fit right in with the lads. Just give it time and make sure to pull your weight. They won't go easy on you just because you're a girl, especially Mr. C." Amos lets his fingers drag across the wall as they walk. Five thin stark paths through the dust, like claw marks. The scratching sound grates on her ears.

The stairs creak under Amos' weight, but not her own. When was the last time she ate? She can't remember, but there's a lingering taste of a sweet apple on the base of her tongue. They didn't get apples very often.

Amos glances back at her over his shoulder, analyzing her. He still has that kind smile, showing a sliver of teeth and curving up at the corners. The dimple is on the right side. She doesn't see the same kindness that's in his smile in his eyes and doesn't understand why. "You are quiet, aren't you?" She can only shrug and pretend not to notice how his voice seems to darken. It was too quick for her to be sure it was there.

Logan isn't sure how long it takes for them to reach the end of the corridor, probably not as long as it felt. The stairs seemed unrealistically steep, though maybe she's just short. There's an ache in the arches of her feet and there's the sting of a splinter in her left foot. Her door is gray and cracked like every other door in the building. She wonders if it was once white and the aging, the dust, has made it so gray. Maybe the whole town used to be bright and shiny, clean and white instead of grey, grey, grey. Maybe she should try scrubbing away the dust one day.

"This is you," Amos mutters, tapping the wood with his knuckles. "I'm just below and a few doors down. The other boys will be up soon. Most of us share rooms, so you're a lucky little damsel." The darkness is gone from his voice, she decides she imagined it. It's been awhile since she's slept. He goes to pat her on the head, but withholds when she seems to curl into herself even further. He notices the violin; Logan sees the curiosity shine in his eyes like he wonders if she can actually play or if it's just a memory of the parents she's lost. She won't say it, but it's a little bit of both.

Amos lingers for a moment as Logan enters the room. She doesn't know what he wants from her, maybe a thank you. In the end, she just nods, and Amos leaves with a huff. His shoulders hunch as he shuffles away, and she feels bad for angering him.

There's a small iron framed bed in the far corner with a dusty pillow and a folded slip of a blanket at the base of the hay mattress. Logan is surprised by the decent looking wardrobe and the round rug on the floor. Even more shocked to see the large window extended along the far wall and the rickety old rocking chair just next to it. She wonders if perhaps this might have been the matron's room when girls still resided in the orphanage. And she remembers that she's only here because it's convenient, it's cheap.  _This room is almost bigger than my house…or, what used to be my house._

Logan places her bag of minimal belongings on the floor of the wardrobe, marveling at the foggy mirror pasted to the inside of the door. She's only ever seen her reflection in streams and metal. She's small and thin.  _I really need a bath_ Logan sniffs, self-consciously picking at the dried blood and dirt on her cheeks. She's glad no one asked about the red spots or the tears tracks. Logan doesn't think she could wear the blood splotched dress anymore. She doesn't have much else, she'll have to scrub it.

Carefully, like the slightest incorrect movement could shatter her world, Logan lowers her violin to the mattress. She takes the photograph of her family, the only proof they existed, and props it up against the side of the wood. She just stares for a moment.

Her father had saved for months, putting spare coins in a jar they kept hidden in one of his old boots. It was her mother's birthday. Logan sat on her mother's lap, who sat on her father's lap. She was laughing, eyes scrunched closed, because her mother was tickling her sides. It was the only way they could make sure she smiled. They were all wearing their nicest clothes. Her mother was smiling at the -  _what was it called? the uh, the cam_  - camera, but her father was looking down at her, so heartbreakingly in love. Like he couldn't imagine life without her. Logan thinks about how he didn't even last a year.

Kneeling next to her new bed, a strange adjustment to make, Logan laces her fingers together and remembers how her mother used to pray every morning and every night. She's not sure if God is real, if heaven and hell are real. Her mother believed, she always wore a cross pendent around her neck. It was made of wood, smoothed through hours of work by her father. She doesn't know if her father was religious. But the possibility of her parents hearing her, even for a moment, gives her the breath she needs to speak into the open air. Her hands shake, her tears go unnoticed, and she briefly mentions the only color in her new grey town. A light icy blue.


	3. Pennies and Places

Not at all a stranger to chores, Logan is unsurprised by the list of tasks Mr. Carlisle rattles off following their measly breakfast every morning of day-old bread – generously gifted to them by the local bakery – and occasionally runny eggs washed down with not-quite-clear water. They are given a list to complete by midday and then the afternoon is theirs to do what they want with, within reason of course. It is a routine that Logan has gotten used to in the few weeks she's been here.

She doesn't know how to feel as she settles into her new life in Small Heath. She's getting comfortable, getting used to life without both of her parents. Nevermind the nights she wakes up gasping, throat sore from a scream she refuses to let out. Eyes wet and weeping, lungs aching. She dreams of guns pressed to her temples and missing jaws. Of weak, shaking fingers, and hearts that never beat right. Waking up early in the morning, and for a split second she doesn't remember any of it. A blissful moment that crashes down when she recognizes her surroundings.

Logan often spends those mornings playing her violin, composing on the scraps of paper and spare charcoal she's scrounged up through her time spent in town. She'll use the hours after completing her chores practicing, just as her mother always taught her. Her door is always closed, but Logan knows a few of the boys huddle outside her room to listen. She doesn't mind, even if they have been less than welcoming to her.

That morning as she's scrubbing the floor of the kitchen one morning, her socks tied around her knees to avoid splinters, that one of the younger boys approaches her. He's as thin as they all are with a diet of stale bread, water, and occasionally ham or eggs, with sweeping black hair and gray eyes – like the rest of the town. His hands shake, he looks nervous. She knows they've been talking about her behind her back. They're not as quiet as they think they are. Logan thinks he's going to speak to her, ask her about her parents, about why she's intruding on them. Maybe ask about her music. Instead, he pulls her dress over her head, exposing her underclothes, and runs away.

Logan can hear the others laughing at her. Chanting about how she should get used to it, about how she'll be a whore one day.  _I want to go home._

With cheeks red in embarrassment and eyes shining with tears that won't fall, Logan readjusts her dress. She goes back to scrubbing the floor, her movements jerkier than before. She thinks about how she doesn't have a home to go to.

She remembers the chair she learned to read in.

Later that afternoon, as she's practicing her music, she hears them again. Ears pressed to her door. Whispers about her songs, giggles about her future. Her father would have opened the door and yelled at them to leave. Her mother would have kindly asked for some privacy to practice. Logan does neither and just keeps on playing. She plays late into the night and contemplates what chores she'll have tomorrow.

Mr. Carlisle has decided to trust her, which is rather strange since Logan's barely been here a few weeks. Perhaps he trusts in that she's a girl, she's less likely to get into trouble. Maybe the other boys are just that untrustworthy. Logan thinks Mr. Carlisle could probably trust Amos, as kind and welcoming as he is. Maybe it's not about trust, just convenience. Maybe he wants her out of the house as much as she wants to be. Whatever the case, Mr. Carlisle gives Logan a few coins to gather their supply of bread and eggs for the week.

Perhaps, after she returns with the groceries, Logan could make her way over to the bookshop she found on one of her strolls through her new grey town. She wants to get to know the town, the people. She's never lived so close to anyone before. Mrs. Higgins was the only neighbor she knew by name. The shop owners, Mr. and Mrs. Stephenson, let Logan read books in the corner of the store. As long as she doesn't distract customers, it's all right. They both know she couldn't afford to purchase one of her own.

She has a small stack of books too aged, torn, and muddied to sell in her room. The Stephensons give them to her. Her favorite is a little torn copy of  _Peter Pan_ , tucked safely under the folds of her pillow. It has a stained purple cover and it's missing pages, but she smiles at the thought of the book. Sometimes she wonders what it'd be like to be Wendy, swept off her feet and taken away from the gray.

Logan's walking down the road, bare feet slipping through the wet gravel, when she sees them again. That big family she saw the day she came here.

Well not the whole family, assuming the group she saw before had been the whole family. This time, it's the two youngest and one of the curly haired women. The one with the eyes that don't match the children.  _Perhaps an Aunt? What's that like?_  And the lad, the one with the nice blue eyes.

Logan doesn't realize she's staring again until it's too late. The little girl with short black hair like her mother's is skipping towards her with a wide smile. Her dress is really pretty, yellow – bold in a town so grey – and ruffled on the ends, and she has shoes.

"Hello, my name is Ada Shelby," the girl, Ada, says. "I like your hair, never seen red like that before. You're new around here, right? What's your name?" She's holding out a hand as if she's expecting Logan to know what to do with it. Logan is still trying to process the speed at which the other girl spoke.

With fingers tangled in the ends of her hair, Logan just looks at Ada's outstretched hand dumbly. Ada's hands are very clean; she has a beaded string bracelet on her left wrist. Logan's never talked to another girl her age before. Belatedly realizing what Ada wants, Logan hesitantly grips the other girl's hand and shakes it. It's awkward and Logan's not sure if she's squeezing too hard. Her hands feel sweaty, and she has to look down at Ada because she's a few inches taller. She still doesn't want to talk, not if she doesn't have to.

"Um…?" That's all Logan manages before taking a step or two back and wiping her hand off on her dress. Her own dress is not as pretty, she twists it self-consciously. Though scrubbed, Logan hasn't warn the flower patterned dress since that night, the night of a single gunshot.

It's not that she hasn't spoken at all since arriving in Small Heath. There have been situations requiring apologies, situations that call for politeness with a "please" and "thank you". Logan remembers the manners her mother instilled in her. She doesn't like how she feels obligated to respond to Ada. "My name, um, I'm…" She doesn't quite know how to start, and Ada is being so kind, so patient with her. The others are staring at her expectantly from a few feet away. "I'm, uh, I'm Logan. Logan Porter." She nods, congratulating herself. Logan's a little proud she managed to get her name through her lips, it's more than she's said in weeks.

Ada's smile widens. She has nice teeth, clean and white. Logan curls her lips over her own teeth. "Logan, huh? That's an odd name for a girl," Ada giggles, and it sounds so light, so free that Logan can't bring herself to be offended. "Hey! Can I call you Lo?" She rocks on her heels, head tilted to the side. Logan doesn't know how to refuse, doesn't feel like she can with the way the other – what was her last name?  _Shel-something, Shelby?_ – the other Shelbys are looking at her, as if denying Ada could be Logan's greatest mistake.

She doesn't want to be called Lo.

"Ada." It was the older boy, the one with the icy eyes.  _I really need to stop thinking about his eyes. It's childish._  His tone is commanding for someone who barely looks a teenager. "Leave the poor girl alone." Logan likes to think he didn't mean anything by it, but suddenly she's very aware she doesn't own any shoes.

"Uh, um…" Logan trails, shuffling her feet. She ignores how a particularly sharp rock digs into her sole. "I, um, I have to…have to go." She swallows passed the lump in her throat and turns around, her sack of bread and fragile eggs clutched in her arms.

"Lo! Wait!" But she doesn't, she refuses to respond to that name. "Tommy! Why'd you have to scare her away? You always do that! John, stop laughing! I just wanted to make a new friend." Ada's voice carries, even as she pouts to her Aunt Pol. Something about new shoes.

 _His name is Tommy._  Logan doesn't stop until she reaches the orphanage, ankles sore and arms aching from the strain of her bag. At only nine years old, she's not expected to be strong, but she'd like to think a bag of bread and eggs isn't enough to prove challenging. She huffs a few breaths and treks up the steps to the peeling front door. She doesn't want to be called Lo.

Amos is sitting by the stairs when she gets back, hands folded over his knees and long yellow hair pulled back like always. He's older than Tommy, she's pretty sure. She doesn't know where that thought came from, so Logan pushes it away and moves towards the kitchen.

"That took you awhile," Amos says, coughing into his fist. He's hiding a cigarette between his knuckles. She didn't know he smoked; the smell reminds her of nights with gun shots and spattered picture frames. "Almost went out to go looking for ya, the bakery ain't that far."

Logan shrugs, mumbles a little apology, and keeps going down the hall. Amos' heavy footsteps thud behind her. Her shoulders seize and she looks at his shadow on the wall out of the corner of her eye. She doesn't feel safe.

He leans against the counter as she starts putting away the goods she got. "What's that then?" Amos' brow furrows, hesitance evident in his tone. Logan only gets confused. Mr. Layton, the baker, was kind enough to gift them some milk as well for one of her extra pennies. She hopes it'll be a nice treat for the lads in the house. "You shouldn't have done that." There's an edge of warning in his words.

Just then, Mr. Carlisle's heavyset form appears in the entryway. Logan briefly marvels that she didn't hear him stomping through the halls. "Porter, little lass, you're back. I'd like my change please," he requests gruffly, but not unkindly. Logan nodded, digging through the pocket she had sewn into her dress one boring afternoon. She presses the three, small coins into his outstretched hand. He has scars on his fingers.

Mr. Carlisle scrunches his brow, counting the coins repeatedly in his palm. He stares incredulously down at Logan.

"Where's the rest? There should be another penny here, girl," he nearly growls, taking a threatening step towards her. Logan swallows, not understanding what she did wrong.

"The – I…um," she stammers, wringing her sweaty fingers together. "He-Mr. Layton, um, milk. He gave me some milk – for the…for, um, the extra coin. I, um, I didn't – I'm sorry!" Logan finishes in a rush, head down and eyes closed in fright. Amos just stood to the side, watching.

Mr. Carlisle slams his hand on the counter, the combination of the metal coins and the flat muscles of his hands booms in her ears. It sounded like a gunshot, but less echoing. Logan can't remember how to breath. "You did what?!" Mr. Carlisle is a loud man, but the way his voice weighs on the room, bouncing of the walls, has Logan's nerves on edge. "Girl, you – but that's just it, isn't it? A little girl, cute and orphaned. I'm sure you think you're oh so special, some kind of exception in this house of boys!" He towers over her as she cowers, back pressed to the wall. "It's time to show you your place, you do what I say, when I say it. No ways around it. I've been patient, what with your muteness and your supposed trauma. But no more, you're no different than the lads here, and I'll make sure you know it."

His fingers, fat and covered in dirt, curl around her arm so tight Logan worries he might break it. There will definitely be a bruise. He starts dragging her towards a drawer to their left.

 _Why isn't Amos doing anything? Help me!_ She can't bring herself to actually say it. Amos is just standing there, leaning against the counter. There's a weird kind of fascination in his eyes, a smirk he seems to be holding back. Logan can only feel confused and scared, so incredibly scared.

There's a terrible scraping noise as Mr. Carlisle pulls open the drawer. The cutlery shakes inside. He pulls out a knife, and Logan starts panicking then.

"N-no, no!" Logan manages, nails scraping against his wrist in a sad attempt at freeing herself. "Please! I'm – I'm sorry! So sorry! I'll…I'll get the – the penny! I'll take the milk back! Please!" She screaming now, louder than she's been since the night of the gunshot.

"Oh, she speaks!" Mr. Carlisle mocks, and he releases her arm, only for his fingers to lace through her hair. He yanks, hard. His face is close to hers. Logan can smell his breath, can hear his teeth grinding. "That penny was worth more than you'll ever be." And the knife starts cutting.

"Please, please stop," Logan sobs, though she's given up the fight, voice soft and broken. Her hair, red like her mother's, drops to the floor in tangled masses. Tears leave tracks down her cheeks. She stares at the floor as Mr. Carlisle cuts her hair.

Logan remembers how much Ada liked her hair, just a little bit ago.

The knife clanks on the counter. "There," Mr. Carlisle sighs, proud of himself. He breathes heavily, as if shearing her scalp was a tremendous effort. "Now you're one of us. Not special, not an exception. You'll learn your place here, lass." He adjusts his pants, like it'll help hide his belly, and waltzes out of the room like he hasn't just taken Logan's only real link to her mother from her.

She slumps in the pile of her hair, legs huddled close. One hand grazes over her uneven new haircut, the other hesitating over the long strands littering the floor. Her fingers shake. Her head feels light and itchy. Her arm aches, and her chest heaves.

Amos left at some point. She thinks about how she'll never be worth more than a penny. Time passes in a blur; she's wasted her free afternoon. Some of the other boys walk by, but they don't do anything. Just stare. Some laugh.

Logan sweeps the hair, her hair, into a pile with her palms. She dumps them into the trash, feeling hallow and detached. She moves slowly, deliberately, and keeps her gaze on her feet. The floorboards creek as she makes her way up the stairs, down the hall, and to her room. A room she never wanted in a place she wishes she could escape from.

Her wardrobe is open, she forgot to close the doors that morning. Her mother would be disappointed at Logan's forgetfulness. Fresh tears roll as she looks at her reflection in the foggy mirror. Her arm is already bruising, angry and purpling quickly. Her hair is short, so short and patchy along her scalp. It stings in some areas where the knife got too close, the red of her blood blends with the red of what's left of her hair. Logan looks away, somehow ashamed and guilty. Maybe she shouldn't wear her dresses anymore. There are some trousers with her other clothes and a couple tattered shirts.

Mr. Carlisle said she needed to learn her place. Logan thinks how her place may be with her parents, like it always has been. She thinks about the knife in the drawer downstairs.

She gets into bed, doesn't bother pulling the blanket over herself, and she pushes away her flat pillow. Logan just curls up, shaking. Her fingernails dig into her shins where she wraps around herself. Her forehead presses tightly to her knees. Her tears wet the mattress by her head. Breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth, Logan adjusts. This is her place for now, alone.  _Five for touch, four for sight, three for sound, two for smell, and one for taste._ She starts counting.


End file.
